


set your sky on fire.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Derek, M/M, No really this is just porn, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 19:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1277551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has never really considered himself to be a very artistic person.  </p><p>But then he started sleeping with Derek Hale and realized creativity has many forms it can take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	set your sky on fire.

**Author's Note:**

> so one of my professors this semester is just godawful so instead of listening to her, I write porn in the margins of my notes. 
> 
> also, the alternate title to this story is "an ode to bottom!Derek. (◡‿◡✿) " and I regret nothing. (:
> 
> Title comes from [Fireworks](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=imkA7QtVjjI) by Madina Lake.

Stiles has never really considered himself to be a very artistic person. He's always been good with numbers, has had a fairly good relationship with dates and cold hard facts. He's okay with words too, even if sometimes they get muddled together between his brain and his mouth or even if sometimes he spits them out at the most inappropriate times. But he's never really been good at converting the hurricane of thoughts and images in his brain into colors on a canvas or charcoal lines in a sketchbook. He'd tried, sure, on more than one occasion, when he was bored and the usual outlets simply weren't cutting it but he'd never been able to create something with his own hands that he was proud of, was never able to simply mold a substance into something he thought was beautiful. 

But then he started sleeping with Derek Hale. 

Derek is lying on his stomach underneath him, fingers twisting the sheets. A few inches away from his palm, there's a set of ragged marks from only two days before, where his claws had raked at the sheets when Stiles had licked a broad stripe up his cock. His forehead is braced against the mattress and with every miniscule movement of Stiles' hips, Derek's muscles shift in response. Stiles is propped up on his hands and when he drops his chin to his chest, he can see beads of sweat pooling at the base of Derek's spine, just about where Stiles' cock is moving in and out of his fever-hot body. 

“Fuck, Stiles, _move_ ,” Derek rasps. His voice is positively ruined, has been for a few minutes now and it further stokes the heat coursing through Stiles' body. He does what he's asked, dropping down to his elbows and the change in position drives him in deeper. Derek's fingers skitter across the sheets, scrabbling for purchase and while one of his hands eventually lands on top of Stiles', the other reaches backwards, sliding against sweat-slick skin, twisting itself until it's latched onto the side of Stiles' neck. 

The heat is almost too much. Stiles feels like he's slowly burning up, like there are coals dotted down Derek's spine, pressing into his chest with every thrust of his hips. He wonders if this is what spontaneous combustion feels like, if he's about to crumble into a pile of black ashes, to be scattered across the white sheets. It's borderline overwhelming and just like the first time he'd slept with Derek, his head is spinning, drunk off of chemicals far more potent than alcohol. He needs to focus himself before he passes out so he presses his blunt teeth into the junction of Derek's shoulder and his neck. The mark starts to fade almost as soon as he pulls away but the asphalt-rough moan it wrings from Derek's throat is more than enough to make up for the lack of a hickie. Derek presses his hips backwards, lifting them higher off of the bed and when Stiles snaps his forward, Derek's (thankfully human) nails press into the back of his hand, leaving crescent marks that are stark white against his flushed skin. 

“God Derek, you're perfect,” he groans, hooking his chin over Derek's shoulder and leaving a string of messy kisses up his neck and the side of his face. Derek turns his head and tries to catch his mouth and although it mainly results in a painful clash of teeth, Stiles still kisses him until he's seeing sunspots behind his eyelids. He pulls back for more leverage, ignoring the burn running up his forearms and for a few long seconds, he's completely entranced by the triskele on Derek's back, unable to focus on anything but the way the triad of spirals flexes and shifts as he keeps thrusting in. 

It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. _Derek_ is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, especially when he's completely uninhibited. When they have sex, his face isn't crinkled with worry lines and he doesn't frown; his mouth hangs open in between gasps of Stiles' name and moans and fucking _growls_. But before he can think about it any further, Derek is coming with a hoarse exclamation of _fuck_ and a loud ripping noise as his newly extended claws rip through the mattress, sending bits of white feathers floating into the air. 

_I did this_ Stiles marvels, moving his hands so that his fingers are pressing into Derek's hips, giving him a better grip so that he can keep thrusting, chasing after the tendrils of burning hot heat that intensify with each seconds. He's the one who took Derek apart piece by piece, the one who took his voice and replaced it with moans, the one who will put him back together in only a few moments. He did it all with his own hands (and some other body parts, of course) and there's no doubt in his mind that what (or rather, who) he's created is nothing less than sheer beauty. 

Maybe he's artistic after all.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
